OPHELIA. [_Sings._] Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go With true-love showers.

KING. How do you, pretty lady?

OPHELIA. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

KING. Conceit upon her father.

OPHELIA. Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [_Sings._] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.